The FitzOsbornes at War (37 page)

But when I reached the office, it was even worse. Miss Halliday snapped at me for being late, and I couldn’t explain why I’d missed my bus. I simply couldn’t find the
words
. I’d never before had any sort of conversation with her that wasn’t about my work. I knew Anne would be sympathetic, but I didn’t want sympathy. I hadn’t earned it. I wasn’t in pain, not at that stage. I was still numb with disbelief, almost paralysed with it. My tongue had turned heavy, my limbs seemed to belong to someone else, my fingers fumbled with the easiest and most familiar of tasks. It took three attempts to thread a piece of paper into my typewriter. Then I stared at the brochure copy I’d proof-read the previous afternoon, and it might as well have been written in Swahili, for all the sense it made.

Some time later – after I’d remembered how to use a typewriter and finished a clean copy of the brochure and dropped it into Mr Bowker’s tray and sat back down at my desk – I decided the RAF had made a mistake. It
couldn’t
be true, what Simon had said about Toby. Their error was quite understandable, of course. I forgave them at once. One couldn’t expect the RAF to keep track of
every
plane, every single pilot – especially a pilot who made a habit of ignoring regulations. And it certainly wouldn’t have been the first time the RAF had blundered . . .

But then I recalled Simon. He’d waited till this morning. He must have checked and double-checked before he’d picked up that telephone. He hadn’t even been able to bring himself to tell me. He’d left that to Veronica. Which was exactly how he’d act, if he were convinced it were true . . .

The Colonel
. The thought flashed across my mind, lighting it up with hope.
He
would be able to discover what had really happened! He was the one I needed! I snatched up my bag, informed an astonished Miss Halliday that I was taking an early luncheon break, then dashed out of the office and down the stairs before she could stop me. I knew where I was headed – that café up the road, the one with the pay telephone. But when I arrived, my heart hammering, my breath coming in painful puffs, I realised I didn’t have any pennies in my purse, only a ten-shilling note. So I sat down at a table and ordered a cup of tea.

And as I waited for it, my hope flickered and died. For how could the Colonel help with
this
? He hadn’t been able to do anything for poor Anthony. And if the Colonel
did
discover something hidden by the RAF – or something unknown even to them, something awful – then how likely was it that he’d tell me the truth?

No one ever told me
anything
. Simon hadn’t even trusted me enough to talk to me! Did he think I was too young – too
feeble
– to be able to cope with the news? Perhaps he was right. At that moment, I was fighting the urge to lay my head on the greasy tabletop and weep. I must have looked as miserable as I felt, because when the waitress set my teacup in front of me, she asked what was wrong.

‘My brother’s a fighter pilot,’ I told her. ‘He was shot down over Belgium yesterday, and one of his squadron saw his plane crash into the ground and burst into flames, and no one knows if he was in it, or if he bailed out, or if he survived the landing, or if he’s been taken prisoner. We don’t know
anything
.’

Yes, I blurted all that out to a complete stranger. But the poor woman probably gets that sort of thing constantly, in her job. It would have served me right if she’d said, ‘Is that all? I’ve had three in here just this morning, exact same thing. There
is
a war on, you know.’ She was awfully kind, though.

‘It’s the not-knowing that’s the worst, isn’t it?’ she tutted. ‘You drink up your tea, love, and try not to fret. I’ll wager you’ll have news soon enough, and he’ll be all right if he’s a prisoner. My neighbour’s boy’s been over there since Dunkirk, and he’s allowed to send letters home and everything.’

I wanted to explain that Toby wasn’t like other missing servicemen. He was special. But I just nodded and tried to drink my tea. I suppose everyone thinks their missing boy is special.

17th May, 1942

W
E HELD A FAMILY COUNCIL
yesterday in Aunt Charlotte’s suite at Claridge’s, after Veronica and I had collected Henry from the railway station. I’d been sick with worry over Henry, but she looked almost cheerful. It turned out this was because she’s convinced herself that Toby’s disappearance is all part of some secret intelligence mission.

‘I know you’re not allowed to tell us anything,’ she said to the Colonel, who’d generously found time in his busy schedule to meet with us. ‘But it’s so obvious, isn’t it? Toby’s plane wouldn’t crash unless he
made
it crash. He’s too good at flying. I expect he was chosen for the mission because he speaks French so well.’

‘Oh yes, he
does
, doesn’t he?’ said Aunt Charlotte, a faint light dawning in her reddened eyes. Barnes took the opportunity to prise the sodden handkerchief out of Aunt Charlotte’s fist and replace it with a fresh one. ‘Yes,’ went on Aunt Charlotte, nodding, ‘I remember, the French Master at Eton always spoke
very
highly of Tobias.’

None of us had the heart to point out that Toby’s plane had crashed in the Flemish-speaking part of Belgium. By then, we knew that one of the other pilots in his squadron had been confirmed as dead, his Spitfire seen plummeting into the Channel, trailing black smoke. The planes flown by Toby and his second-in-command hadn’t even made it back as far as the sea. Both had smashed into farmland near the coast and exploded on impact. There was some vague talk of a parachute being spotted, but no one knew whose it was. Of course, Henry was certain it was Toby’s.

‘I bet he had a huge lot of supplies in his pack when he bailed out,’ she said. ‘Enough to last for ages, until he meets up with the Resistance agents. He’ll be fine, once he makes contact with them.’

Veronica shot her a look composed of equal parts concern and exasperation, then turned back to the Colonel. ‘Should we contact the Red Cross, do you think?’ she asked him. ‘They visit all the prisoner of war camps, don’t they? Do they keep a register of names?’

‘Actually,’ the Colonel said, ‘I’m wondering if it might be a good idea to . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘That is, forgive me, but I think we ought to make an announcement that Toby is dead.’

‘What?’ cried Aunt Charlotte, her eyes welling afresh. ‘Oh,
no
!’

‘Just to deceive the Germans, that’s all,’ the Colonel added hurriedly. ‘We don’t want them realising the head of state of one of the Allied nations might be wandering about Belgium. If we say he’s dead, they won’t be looking for him.’

Henry gave a firm nod, as though this confirmed all her theories, but Aunt Charlotte kept shaking her head, distress written across her face. I could quite understand how she felt. There was no way Toby would read the announcement or hear of it – even if he
were
still alive – but to agree to this felt as though we were giving up on him. I glanced at Veronica, who was frowning hard.

‘Yes, it
would
be a sensible move,’ she muttered, although I wasn’t sure whether she was talking to herself or to us. ‘There
have
been cases of Allied servicemen avoiding capture in France and making it across the Spanish border. Except the Spanish government’s being very difficult at the moment, and Belgium is so
far
from Spain. I don’t suppose . . .’ She looked up at the Colonel. ‘Could he cross the Channel, do you think? Would there be any fishermen willing to take him across?’

‘I think that would be . . . very unlikely,’ the Colonel said. ‘I understand the Germans have destroyed or requisitioned all the boats along the Channel coast in the occupied territories. Which hasn’t endeared them to the locals, of course, so there’s a distinct possibility there’d be villagers around who’d be prepared to help Toby.’

If
he’d survived the crash.
If
he wasn’t so badly wounded that he was beyond help.

‘Look,’ said the Colonel bracingly, ‘if he
does
get picked up by the authorities and they don’t realise who he is . . . well, so far, they’ve been pretty decent. Look at Douglas Bader – you know, that pilot with the two artificial legs? He got shot down last year, and had to leave one of his legs behind in his plane when he bailed out. But the Germans actually let the RAF drop off a replacement leg for him, at his prisoner of war camp! Jolly nice of them. Of course, they’ve threatened to confiscate
both
his legs now, because he keeps trying to escape . . .’

Henry was the only one who laughed.

I can’t help admiring her steadfast loyalty to Toby. To her, Toby is a god – indomitable, immortal. She simply refuses to contemplate that he might be gone. Perhaps it would be kinder to start preparing her for the very worst . . . and yet, Henry’s belief that Toby is alive and well is not only keeping
her
going, but just about the only thing sustaining our poor aunt. The only times she showed any signs of animation were when Henry was talking. I watched Aunt Charlotte begin to nod as Henry recalled Toby’s excellent sense of direction and superb map-reading skills; she almost smiled as Henry described how the village girls would be fighting amongst themselves for the privilege of hiding Toby in their barn. It may even be some comfort to our aunt that Henry
looks
so much like Toby. That same tangle of golden curls, the same mischievous blue eyes, the same wide smile, quirking up at one corner . . .

Oh,
God
.

That waitress was wrong. I would readily endure years and
years
of the agony of not-knowing, if it means that, at the end of it, I will see my brother again.

26th May, 1942

V
ERONICA AND
I
VISITED
T
OBY’S
aerodrome on Saturday. I think the RAF would have much preferred to bundle up Toby’s belongings and post them to us, but we insisted on collecting them in person. We’d hoped to meet some of the men who’d flown with him – Veronica thought they might reveal some tiny, seemingly insignificant snippet of information that hadn’t made it into the official report, something that might give us cause for optimism. But she was too eager, too anxious – too intense.

‘Wait,’ she said, leaning over the table in the pub, where one of the pilots had brought us for a drink, ‘was this
before
or
after
the first Messerschmitt opened fire?’

I could see the poor boy was regretting having agreed to talk to us. He couldn’t have been any older than I was, and his uniform hung on him awkwardly, as though it’d been thrown together for a much broader man. He was so shy (or perhaps so unused to women) that he could barely look Veronica in the eye.

‘I . . . I really couldn’t say,’ he stammered. ‘It was too quick. I don’t even know if it
was
Toby or . . . or someone else.’